A Farewell Note

On a day like today even few days back, I woke up with your call / text in the morning. Half asleep and half irritated, you made an abrupt Sunday plan! I was little hesitated and perplexed, while you smiled all along the way...

And now, its today ! the phone remained mute, it did ring in the morning and I with my sleep starved eyes looked at the mobile and never replied. That is the beginning, the beginning of the time when there will be none who will color my hard-core practicality with a dash of dreamer's eyes! I shall be the same, irritated and hot headed.

There are plenty of time while walking in the smokey alleys, or while humming a song carelessly, you asked me - "Do you ever dream? Is it so bad to fall in love?" then I say, "Grow UP ! *tsk tsk* what would I do with you! " with a deep, sordid sigh! With ever beguiling dimpled smile you say, " Wet paint! You ask me not to sit on the stool but I still sit. Its not bad! Its only wet paint. It will spoil my pants and leave a mark, but its fun...I always fail to understand that even that fossil of dry paint is an unnecessary trouble in life...I know why you shout at me!
promise me, you will never stop shouting at me!"  then we exchange songs, poems and pictures thinking a networking site to be a part of our lives. We remember conversations, we remember the last secret joke that we shared. I never felt that you will leave this city about which I crib the most and you compensate that with your love! you talk about the Mortician, Maya and the heartless Casanova!

Coming back to the same fantasy land you ask your invisible lover, " Can I call you Puspa like Rajesh Khanna and you will call me Ramesh Babu,
Sometimes may be Raj and I will call you Simran....
We will dance on the moving trains; make it in the pouring rains,
Run in the tulip fields, sing on helicopters and make love on fire...
We will sing inside the elevator and live on the roads...
We will name our home Basera..."

I frown and scream at you ! I stop you from drinking the poison called love, I ignore your pain and force you to smile, with those moist dark eyes. I have never been so cruel, may be I want you not to suffer anymore, may be I was too scared to let you go, or may be I was just protecting you from the gnashing ravages of human life! Everything halted as you left. The Sunday mornings, sauntering in the by-lanes with cheap cigarettes, sudden gush of rain or even my eternal conflict with the famous 'Rabindranath Thakur'...

...and then you leave with a note saying, "Many a times we have called each other up complaining about the over cast sky or the traffic on the roads or the hiking up of the prices of cigarettes.And then consoled ourselves with the thought of there is always a tomorrow. It’s just that this time the night would be a little prolonged before tomorrow comes.

I promise to come back as soon as possible. You just promise me to be the same Mortician you always have been to this Dreamer.

Don’t get distressed when I cry, let me sob some and feel sorry for myself... I would just be a phone call away.... and yeah I am sure dirty Santa’s would not sleep switching off their mobiles this Christmas.
love as always :)"

For the Dreamer of my dreams

Yes, with love always and forever, my stupid Dreamer !

Untitled II

When you hear them pack their bags
Their large feet shrinking away through the door
Their hands on the gate

There are
the spaces they leave

Just there
the poem places a last glance back at the window imprinted with ghost thuds of birds
Tiny carcasses already dropped to the purring mouths of quiet cats with long transparent whiskers to move soundlessly through the night
green eyed

Here the sounds wobble as another marches by loudly
measuring a distance with the certainty of numbers noted down
Where their edges are lost in the overlapping

A sharp urgency flounders
behind a dull puckered
These are not sounds
these are words
interrupted by the sharp announcement of the doorbell rising to be heard past the furniture as if unexpected
Hands clench
small pawed in cotton skirted courtesy
Follow the words trailing
As a shrill wind fills the silence left wide open behind them
Heavy lidded you return to the page which shivered blankly beneath a note written then placed in a pocket
A moment stained with the mottled impossibility
of containing an ending in the telling
remains

Untitled

Can I reveal to you my gestures
through this writing.

I want to show you my hand,
As it rests now in my lap,
Fingers softly curled,
Upturned like a cup.

As the other makes these shapes
Which I will later tap tap type
with two stiff fingers.

Read them now and retrace
That path of meaning, back
through keypad, paper, pen
hands, lap, arms

Back to the point
of its conception

Back to this moment
Which was right.

We can adjust the rest
Later.

The Black Rose

For my darling Annie

She held her arms high, toward the moon.
Surrounded by the dark night and its morose presence.
Her hair, woven of moonlight, flows restlessly against her pale skin.
She drowns endlessly and bathes in the angelic light of the moon.

A long lost soul, yearning for liberation.
Breathing for her love, deceased.
This is the lost tale
Of the Black Rose.

She cries tears of blood, marring her beauty.
No longer virginal, but impure.
When will the enticer cease his sins.
And bring her back to true existence.

A crestfallen soul, mourning for deliverance.
Bleeding for her love, lifeless.
This is the lost tale of
Of the Black Rose

Heartless and cold, the enticer persists.
Feeding her hunger for hope and faith.
That one day, her love will commence.
And return to her forlornly arms.

A disheartened soul, longing for love.
Dying for her lover, demised.
This was the lost tale
Of the Black Rose.
That withered without love.